mortgage. She gently yanked on my hair then stopped obediently in front of her father.
I stared at the computer screen … zippo.Thumping my nails on the table, I sang the ABC Song twice, rapped the Pledge to Allegiance, debated my cholesterol level, and before I knew it, voilà an email was returned.
No waaaaaay. That meant my sins were meant-to-be, right?
DATE: August 10, 08:02AM
TO: Jester from Jesterville
FROM: Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel
RE: Cisco Medina
Jester,
Are you okay? Is it Lola? Girl, that’s where the problem is. Let’s get together.
Troy Brown
Man worried about jesters
I gulped, swallowed some gastric juices, and thankfully passed gas as a burp. I’d just struck it rich and barely lifted a finger. Lola Medina—as well as Cisco’s father—had been cleared according to yesterday’s paper, but what specifically had transpired in Lola’s world that left Troy suspicious? If anything, Troy gave me a starting place. Find Lola Medina, find clue number one.
You’re playing with fire , I said to myself. You like the burn , my alter ego countered.
That’s the way I made decisions. An angel lived on one shoulder, the devil on the other. Unfortunately, that little devil had too big of a say-so—the main reason I traveled the short road to Hades.
I keyboarded a simple, “Yes.”
And waited.
Annnd waited.
Annnnnnnnd … waited.
Rapping my fingers on the keyboard, I deliberated what Troy had seen or heard that tipped him off to a less than honest mother. Nervousness? Lack of nervousness? Sketchy story? Rehearsed answers?
Jittery from head to toe, I plucked Colton’s ink pen out from his ear, then rocked back and forth, and inked the words, “The truth shall set you free” on my left palm. Next, I gnawed off the pinky nail on my right hand. Finally, Colton’s laptop chimed again.
DATE: August 10, 08:07AM
TO: Jester from Jesterville
FROM: Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel
RE: Cisco Medina
Jester,
Contact me at 407-555-1234 or via email. Be careful.
Troy
Many wondering why Ms. Ovaries is masquerading as Jester
I sucked in a sharp breath … I thought I’d been subtle. Thing was, Ms. Ovaries didn’t know whose fist to dodge first. I erased the history of my transgressions then settled in as Cody lifted us to a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet. Right when I prematurely unbuckled, a big bump sent me slamming chest-first into the tray table.
“Oh, God,” Colton prayed, suddenly nervous about the turbulence. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m good,” I mumbled, but my ribs weren’t, and chances were Divine Discipline had come into play. “I just need to relax.”
“What do you do to relax at home?” he muttered offhandedly.
“Sometimes I go outside and shoot the squirrels. Just depends.”
He attempted a laugh, but I feared he was moments from a complete psychotic episode. For an international businessman, air travel packed some major fear factor for Colton. Evidently, Pegasus almost crashed once, and he hadn’t found Xanadu since.
When the 12,000-pound plane jumped forward again, Colton cursed under his breath—clearly needing his mommy. If I had a Marlboro, I’d smoke it. I glanced over to my soulmate. Dylan sat tranquil—reading Sports Illustrated —not scared poopless like his lying best friend. “Ah, Darc,” he sighed, closing up the magazine, “don’t be scared.”
Don’t be scared? I currently did the doggie paddle down the ditch of desperation. “I-I—”
I couldn’t form words.
“What does my girl need?”
A brain transplant. Leaning across the aisle, he gently rubbed his thumb back and forth over the top of my extended hand. Dylan could help you find your stride, and he’d called me “his girl” since eighth grade. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted to crawl onto his lap and have him promise me I could pull off the impossible … before I died a liar.
Toward the end of the flight, the blood born Taylors went to the rear of the plane for
I stared at the computer screen … zippo.Thumping my nails on the table, I sang the ABC Song twice, rapped the Pledge to Allegiance, debated my cholesterol level, and before I knew it, voilà an email was returned.
No waaaaaay. That meant my sins were meant-to-be, right?
DATE: August 10, 08:02AM
TO: Jester from Jesterville
FROM: Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel
RE: Cisco Medina
Jester,
Are you okay? Is it Lola? Girl, that’s where the problem is. Let’s get together.
Troy Brown
Man worried about jesters
I gulped, swallowed some gastric juices, and thankfully passed gas as a burp. I’d just struck it rich and barely lifted a finger. Lola Medina—as well as Cisco’s father—had been cleared according to yesterday’s paper, but what specifically had transpired in Lola’s world that left Troy suspicious? If anything, Troy gave me a starting place. Find Lola Medina, find clue number one.
You’re playing with fire , I said to myself. You like the burn , my alter ego countered.
That’s the way I made decisions. An angel lived on one shoulder, the devil on the other. Unfortunately, that little devil had too big of a say-so—the main reason I traveled the short road to Hades.
I keyboarded a simple, “Yes.”
And waited.
Annnd waited.
Annnnnnnnd … waited.
Rapping my fingers on the keyboard, I deliberated what Troy had seen or heard that tipped him off to a less than honest mother. Nervousness? Lack of nervousness? Sketchy story? Rehearsed answers?
Jittery from head to toe, I plucked Colton’s ink pen out from his ear, then rocked back and forth, and inked the words, “The truth shall set you free” on my left palm. Next, I gnawed off the pinky nail on my right hand. Finally, Colton’s laptop chimed again.
DATE: August 10, 08:07AM
TO: Jester from Jesterville
FROM: Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel
RE: Cisco Medina
Jester,
Contact me at 407-555-1234 or via email. Be careful.
Troy
Many wondering why Ms. Ovaries is masquerading as Jester
I sucked in a sharp breath … I thought I’d been subtle. Thing was, Ms. Ovaries didn’t know whose fist to dodge first. I erased the history of my transgressions then settled in as Cody lifted us to a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet. Right when I prematurely unbuckled, a big bump sent me slamming chest-first into the tray table.
“Oh, God,” Colton prayed, suddenly nervous about the turbulence. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m good,” I mumbled, but my ribs weren’t, and chances were Divine Discipline had come into play. “I just need to relax.”
“What do you do to relax at home?” he muttered offhandedly.
“Sometimes I go outside and shoot the squirrels. Just depends.”
He attempted a laugh, but I feared he was moments from a complete psychotic episode. For an international businessman, air travel packed some major fear factor for Colton. Evidently, Pegasus almost crashed once, and he hadn’t found Xanadu since.
When the 12,000-pound plane jumped forward again, Colton cursed under his breath—clearly needing his mommy. If I had a Marlboro, I’d smoke it. I glanced over to my soulmate. Dylan sat tranquil—reading Sports Illustrated —not scared poopless like his lying best friend. “Ah, Darc,” he sighed, closing up the magazine, “don’t be scared.”
Don’t be scared? I currently did the doggie paddle down the ditch of desperation. “I-I—”
I couldn’t form words.
“What does my girl need?”
A brain transplant. Leaning across the aisle, he gently rubbed his thumb back and forth over the top of my extended hand. Dylan could help you find your stride, and he’d called me “his girl” since eighth grade. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted to crawl onto his lap and have him promise me I could pull off the impossible … before I died a liar.
Toward the end of the flight, the blood born Taylors went to the rear of the plane for